


Us painless, us blameless

by tragicallydelicious



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Freedom, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Sexual Slavery, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallydelicious/pseuds/tragicallydelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasir finds his own power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Us painless, us blameless

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://tragicallydelicious.tumblr.com/post/20339992555/agron-nasir-fic-fst-by-tragicallydelicious) as a multi-media thing. Reposting for archival purposes and for those who don't dig the whole Tumblr format.

It happens for Agron (he confesses some time later, on the edge of sleep, long limbs wrapped around Nasir like his lover might attempt flight if not secured firmly to bed) the first time Nasir really challenges him, telling Crixus of Agron’s deception, then following Spartacus into the mines, risking life in attempt to repair damage inflicted by false tongue.

For Nasir (he never tells, but thinks of often, when he wakes to Agron’s soft breathing and the gentle pull of his fingers through Nasir’s hair) it is when Agron returns from destroying the arena, sweat and ash covered but otherwise unmarked, a blessing from the gods, smiling at Nasir like a man who has not glimpsed sun for weeks.

\--

Nasir has been free for some time now. Still, the idea of not having to give himself, his body, to any man at any time outside that of his own choosing, is novelty.

It’s power, frightening and thrilling. Something he never imagined he would have and which he still, half the time, is unsure what to do with. So when it becomes clear, to him and others – Chadara’s words on the subject echo often in his mind, to the point of distraction – that Agron’s eyes upon him have less to do with being certain Nasir does not make second attempt on Spartacus and more to do with other, baser desires, he avoids being alone with the former gladiator, submitting to his attentions only when they’re in the company of others.

Agron’s gaze is like fire, promising both danger and purity, and sometimes Nasir wishes that Agron were simple, that he wanted to kill him, because this other thing is more complex, more difficult, pulling Nasir into new, unfamiliar territory, where he struggles to maintain footing.

\--

The sword is heavy in his hand, but not like it was in the beginning. He tries not to lean too much on Agron, who would shoulder more weight than needed. To learn to be his own weapon. He quickly comes to accept that it’s always been a part of him, this instinct to fight. To bite, kick, scratch and hiss, for himself, for those he cares about. That he never made attempt on his dominus is more telling to how enslaved he had been, body and mind, than the collar Spartacus had ripped from his neck.

The blade is but catalyst, and Agron’s quiet, pride-laced words of instruction and encouragement orison, telling him that this – _this_ is what he was meant for.

Not to wash the feet and face and cock of some master, to lay down prone for the pleasure of another, clean and painted and plaited, but to fight, filthy and raw and wild like some beast.

\--

His hair goes unwashed for weeks. He wears Agron’s too-large clothes and they smell of sweat and musk and dried blood, as well as the less specific but increasingly familiar scent of his lover. Nasir trains relentlessly, whenever he is not occupied by some other duty. The routine of watch and spar and hunt and eat is comfort now, like his routine of wake and bathe and feast and fuck had once been. Only at the end of it all, there is satisfaction.

Satisfaction, and Agron’s arms. Sweet, soft kisses that ask for nothing in return, only the privilege of looking upon Nasir’s face and form. Sometimes he thinks Agron would be satisfied with only that, were Nasir unable or unwilling to offer him more.

A different kind of power, equally intoxicating.

\--

“What am I to you?” Nasir asks one morning, apropos of nothing, watching Agron tear meat from bone with his fingers, sucking the food into his mouth; he’s captivated, he realizes, by the movement of Agron’s lips. His lover’s gaze shifts from where it’s been focused, some random point across the yard, and Nasir wishes he could see his thoughts half as easily as he sometimes imagines Agron reading his.

Agron chews, slowly, swallows before replying. His tone suggests the question is unexpected, one he assumed Nasir already knew answer to – and he does. He only wants to hear it.

“You are my heart,” Agron says, after a moment spent considering his words. “I would draw final breath at your side.”

“And what would become of me, should you die in my defense?” Nasir presses. It is something he has thought about, despite the odds of his surviving a battle Agron could not win being small, almost too small to consider.

He had once believed the chances of his ever living free were also too small to consider. He had once equated freedom with unimaginable danger – and it _is_ dangerous, and terrifying, and painful. But it has also given him this.

“Take meal,” Agron commands, like a general, pushing what’s left of his own rations in Nasir’s direction before rising to stand, towering over him. Monolith with clever, witty tongue and quick, talented hands. “Today, we train until the gods themselves tremble at thought of coming between us.”

Not so clear an answer, Nasir thinks. At the same time, answer enough.

\--

He does not favor sparring with Agron, who is too gentle with him, intentionally or not. The flat of Spartacus’ sword, singing through the air to strike, leaving Nasir’s skin stinging, is preferred, but not always accessible now, with the threat of Rome looming ever closer. So he turns to Crixus, who never holds back, leaving Nasir bruised and breathless; whether it is out of respect for Nasir or as subtle slight to Agron, it matters not.

Nasir does not mention Agron, or ask about Naevia, but lets the Gaul speak of what he will when conversation drifts away from technique.

“I used to train with Spartacus like this,” Crixus says, “back in the ludus. More than once, I called him a little man.”

Nasir smiles. Crixus returns it. A flash, then gone.

\--

His back hitting the wall knocks the air from his lungs, but Agron permits no time to recover. He is right there, hands clutching Nasir’s face, impossibly long legs bracketing him in. He attacks Nasir’s mouth, and Nasir is gasping, impatient, on edge, but the part of his mind that still thinks, relentless, refusing him a single moment’s worth of careless indulgence, stops him short. He shoves Agron back, and Agron is wrapped up in him just enough that he allows it.

“We must wait until Spartacus relieves us of charge.”

“Time passes too slowly.”

“We must be quick, then.” His own voice is that of a stranger.

The last lingering threads of obligation, binding Nasir to duty, to service, snap as lips reunite, hot and wet and open for him. His hands on Agron are all he can think about. The woman they stand guard over, a curiosity before, is reduced to fiercely frustrating distraction. By the time Mira arrives to relieve them, Nasir has lost the capacity to form complete sentences, and stutters like an idiot. His only restitution is that Agron is no better off than he.

\--

“Going to make you come tonight,” Agron whispers when their lips break apart, briefly. His voice is soft, low against Nasir’s mouth, and Nasir lets go, starts to unravel, sagging beneath the flat of Agron’s palm in the curve of his back, the heat pooling in his pale eyes. After that confession, Agron kisses him more carefully, his beard abrading skin but his lips gentle. He strips them both naked and lays Nasir down in their shared bedding, undoing him until he’s spread across their threadbare blankets like carrion.

When Agron takes him into his mouth, slicking him with spit, Nasir’s thighs clench tight around his shoulders and he makes small, gasping, panting noises. In no time at all, he is lifting his hips to meet him – and when Agron tilts his head back to look up at him, look _into_ him, his cheeks are flush with warmth. Warmer than he’s ever looked or felt.

Nasir shouts his lover’s name into the air and cares not who might be listening. When he kisses Agron after, he tastes himself, and quickly reverses their positions to return the favor.

\--

“You look good with blood upon face,” Agron breathes, then, “I like to watch you fight.”

There is blood on his face, too. On his lips and chin. Nasir’s blood.

“I would fight every day, were this result, and not some darker fate,” Nasir says. He straddles Agron’s waist, bare thighs clenched, tensed and sore from Spartacus’ games, hurts soothed minimally by Agron’s caressing hands. The deep cut on Nasir’s lip has come open again with the force of their kissing; he presses thumb to wound so that it flows freely, rubbing a wet, red stripe across Agron’s cheek. “I liked seeing Oenomaus dominate you.”

“Not so difficult a thing,” Agron says, “for one with proper skill.” His grip tightens, and Nasir closes his eyes, rocking back so that Agron’s cock is flush against his own. They move together like this for a time, Agron’s hands curving around Nasir’s ass, kneading his flesh, Nasir’s own palms flat on Agron’s broad chest. He focuses attention on Agron’s hardening cock, the dull waves of pleasure it provides, spiraling, vibrating through him, but the pressure through clothing is not enough.

His dominus would fuck him, sometimes, when his mood was dark – and Nasir does not think about those times, like Agron does not think about Duro, and neither is ready to cry on shoulder yet – but his preference was Nasir behind him. Cock in ass and barely moving while Dominus slammed into some other, more often than not female, slave.

Most days, Agron’s eyes and voice are enough to drive away memories of ill use, but tonight, the blood still surging in Nasir’s veins demands more intimate distraction. He reaches behind himself, drags one of Agron’s hands up, sucking two thick fingers between his lips. Agron knows what this means and draws in a hitching breath, exhaling slowly with a small, satisfied laugh. Then his mouth softens and his eyes do not blink, looking at Nasir like he’s the most important thing in the world.

To take someone’s life, to drive someone mad with lust, Nasir thinks. Power.

He knows now which he favors.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Us Painless, Us Blameless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/585880) by [Jinxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxy/pseuds/Jinxy)




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